Thucydides Considers

The Innermost Consequences of War

SO bloody was the march
of the revolution, and the impression which it made was the greater as
it was one of the first to occur. Later on, one may say, the whole Hellenic
world was convulsed; struggles being made everywhere by the popular chiefs
to bring in the Athenians, and by the oligarchs to introduce the Lacedaemonians.
In peace there would have been neither the pretext nor the wish to make
such an invitation; but in war, with an alliance always at the command
of either faction for the hurt of their adversaries and their own corresponding
advantage, opportunities for bringing in the foreigner were never wanting
to the revolutionary parties.

The sufferings which the revolution entailed
upon the cities were many and terrible, such as have occurred and always
will occur, as long as the nature of mankind remains the same; though
in a severer or milder form, and varying in their symptoms, according
to the variety of the particular cases. In peace and prosperity states
and individuals have better sentiments, because they do not find themselves
suddenly confronted with imperious necessities; but war takes away the
easy supply of daily wants, and so proves a rough master, that brings
most men's characters to a level with their fortunes.

Revolution thus ran its course from city
to city, and the places which it arrived at last, from having heard what
had been done before, carried to a still greater excess the refinement
of their inventions, as manifested in the cunning of their enterprises
and the atrocity of their reprisals. Words had to change their ordinary
meaning and to take that which was now given them. Reckless audacity came
to be considered the courage of a loyal ally; prudent hesitation, specious
cowardice; moderation was held to be a cloak for unmanliness; ability
to see all sides of a question inaptness to act on any. Frantic violence
became the attribute of manliness; and cautious plotting a justifiable
means of self-defence. The advocate of extreme measures was always trustworthy;
his opponent a man to be suspected. To succeed in a plot was to have a
shrewd head, to divine a plot still shrewder; but to try to provide against
having to do either was to break up your party and to be afraid of your
adversaries. In fine, to forestall an intending criminal, or to suggest
the idea of a crime, was equally commended, until even blood became a
weaker tie than party, from the superior readiness of those united by
the latter to dare everything without reserve; for such associations had
not in view the blessings derivable from established institutions but
were formed by ambition for their overthrow; and the confidence of their
members in each other rested less on any religious sanction than upon
complicity in crime.

The fair proposals of an adversary were
met with jealous precautions by the stronger of the two, and not with
generous confidence. Revenge was also held of more account than self-preservation.
Oaths of reconciliation, being only proffered on either side to meet an
immediate difficulty, only held good so long as no other weapon was at
hand; but when opportunity offered, he who first ventured to seize it
and to take his enemy off his guard, thought this perfidious vengeance,
better than an open one, since, considerations of safety apart, success
by treachery won him the palm of superior intelligence. Indeed, it is
generally the case that men are readier to call rogues clever than simpletons
honest, and are as ashamed of being the second as they are proud of being
the first.

The cause of all these evils was the lust
for power arising from greed and ambition; and from these passions proceeded
the violence of parties once engaged in contention. The leaders in the
cities, each provided with the fairest professions, on the one side with
the cry of political equality of the people, on the other of a moderate
aristocracy, sought prizes for themselves in those public interests which
they pretended to cherish, and, recoiling from no means in their struggles
for ascendancy, engaged in the direct excesses; in their acts of vengeance
they went to even greater lengths, not stopping at what justice or the
good of the state demanded, but making the party caprice of the moment
their only standard, and invoking with equal readiness the condemnation
of an unjust verdict or the authority of the strong arm to glut the animosities
of the hour. Thus religion was in honour with neither party; but the use
of fair phrases to arrive at guilty ends was in high reputation. Meanwhile
the moderate part of the citizens perished between the two, either for
not joining in the quarrel, or because envy would not suffer them to escape.

Thus every form of iniquity took root in
the Hellenic countries by reason of the troubles. The ancient simplicity
into which honour so largely entered was laughed down and disappeared;
and society became divided into camps in which no man trusted his fellow.
To put an end to this, there was neither promise to be depended upon,
nor oath that could command respect; but all parties dwelling rather in
their calculation upon the hopelessness of a permanent state of things,
were more intent upon self-defence than capable of confidence. In this
contest the blunter wits were most successful. Apprehensive of their own
deficiencies and of the cleverness of their antagonists, they feared to
be worsted in debate and to be surprised by the combinations of their
more versatile opponents, and so at once boldly had recourse to action;
while their adversaries, arrogantly thinking that they should know in
time, and that it was unnecessary to secure by action what policy afforded,
often fell victims to their want of precaution.

A Social Comment

from

The Nigger of the Narcissus

by Joseph Conrad

ANOTHER new hand--a man
with shifty eyes and a yellow hatchet face, who had been listening openmouthed
in the shadow of the midship locker--observed in a squeaky voice: --"Well,
it's a 'omeward trip anyhow. Bad or good, I can do it on my 'ed--s'long
as I get 'ome. And I can look after my rights! I will show 'em!"

All the heads turned towards him. Only the
ordinary seaman and the cat took no notice. He stood with arms akimbo,
a little fellow with white eyelashes. He looked as if he had known all
the degradations and all the furies. He looked as if he had been cuffed,
kicked, rotted in the mud; he looked as if he has been scratched, spat
upon, petted with unmentionable filth, and he smiled with a sense of security
at the faces around. His ears were bending down under the weight of his
battered felt hat. The torn tails of his black coat flapped in fringes
about the calves of his legs. He unbuttoned the only two buttons that
remained and everyone saw that he had no shirt under it. It was his deserved
misfortune that those rags which nobody could possibly have supposed to
own looked on him as though they had been stolen. His neck was long and
thin; his eyelids were red; rare hairs hung about his jaws; his shoulders
were peaked and drooped like the broken wings of a bird; all his left
side was caked with mud which showed that he had lately slept in a wet
ditch.

He had saved his inefficient carcass from
violent destruction by running away from an American ship where, in a
moment of forgetful folly, he had dared to engage himself; and he had
knocked about for a fortnight ashore in the native quarter, cadging for
drinks, starving, sleeping on rubbish-heaps, wandering in sunshine: a
startling visitor from the world of nightmares.

He stood repulsive and smiling in the sudden
silence. This clean white forecastle was his refuge; the place where he
could be lazy; where he could wallow, and lie and eat--and curse the food
he ate; where he could display his talents for shirking work, for cheating,
for cadging; where he could find surely someone to wheedle and someone
to bully--and where he would be paid for doing all this.

They all knew him. Is there a spot on earth
where such a man is unknown, an ominous survival testifying to the eternal
fitness of lies and impudence? A taciturn long-armed shellback, with hooked
fingers, who had been lying on his back smoking, turned in his bed to
examine him dispassionately, then, over his head, sent a long jet of saliva
clear towards the door.

They all knew him! He was the man that cannot
steer, that cannot splice, that dodges the work on dark nights; that,
aloft, holds on frantically with both arms and legs, and swears at the
wind, the sleet, the darkness; the man who curses the sea while others
work. The man who is the last out and the first in when all hands are
called. The man who can't do most things and won't do the rest. The pet
of philanthropists and self-seeking landlubbers. The sympathetic and deserving
creature that knows all his rights, but knows nothing of courage, of endurance,
and of the unexpressed faith, of the unspoken loyalty that knits together
a ship's company. The independent offspring of the slums, full of disdain
and hate for the austere servitude of the sea.

Extracts from Timber, or,
Discoveries Made upon Men and Matter

by Ben Jonson

FOR a man to write well,
there are required three Necessaries: To reade the best Authors, observe
the best Speakers, and much exercise of his own style. In style, to consider
what ought to be written and after what manner: Hee must first thinke
and excogitate his matter, then choose his words, and examine the weight
of either. Then take care, in placing and ranking both matter and words,
that the composition be comely; and to do this with diligence and often.
No matter how slow the style be at first, so it be labour'd and accurate;
seeke the best, and be not glad of the forward conceipts, or first words,
that offer themselves to us; but judge of what wee invent, and order what
we approve. Repeat often what we have formerly written: which beside that
it helpes the consequence, and makes the juncture better, it quickens
the heate of imagination, that often cools in the time of setting down,
and gives it new strength, as if it grew lustier by the going back. As
wee see in the contention of leaping, they jump farthest that fetch their
race largest; or, as in throwing the Dart or Iavelin, we force back our
arms to make our loose the stronger. Yet, if we have a fair gate of wind,
I forbid not the steering out of our sayle, so the favour of the gale
deceive us not. For all that wee invent doth please us in the conception
or birth, else we would never set it down. But the safest is to return
to our judgement, and handle over again those things the easinesse of
which makes them justly suspected. So did the best Writers in their beginnings;
they impos'd upon themselves care and industry. They did nothing rashly.
They obtain'd first to write well, and then custome made it easie and
a habit. So the summe of all is: Ready writing makes not good writing,
but good writing brings on ready writing.

THE shame of speaking unskilfully were small
if the tongue onely were thereby disgrac'd: But as the Image of a King
in his Seale ill-represented is not so much a blemish to the waxe, or
the Signet that seat'd it, as to the Prince it representeth, so disordered
speech is not so much injury to the lips that give it forth, as to the
disproportion and incoherence of things in themselves, so negligently
expressed. Neither can his Mind be thought to be in Tune, whose words
do jarre; nor his reason in frame, whose sentence is preposterous; nor
his Elocution clear and perfect, whose utterance breaks it self into fragments
and uncertainties. Negligent speech doth not only discredit the person
of the Speaker, but it discrediteth the opinion of his reason and judgement;
it discrediteth the force and uniformity of the matter and substance.
If it be so then in words, which fly and 'scape censure, and where one
good Phrase asks pardon for many incongruities and faults, how then shall
he be thought wise whose penning is thin and shallow? How shall you took
for wit from him whose leasure and head, assisted with the examination
of his eyes, yeeld you no life or sharpnesse in his writing?

BUT Arts and Precepts avail nothing, except
nature be beneficial and ayding, and therefore these things are no more
written to a dull disposition then rules of husbandry to a barren Soyle.
No precepts will profit a Foole, no more then beauty will the blind, or
musicke the deaf. As wee should take care that our style in writing be
neither dry nor empty, wee should looke againe it be not winding, or wanton
with far-fetched descriptions: Either is a vice. But that is worse which
proceeds out of want then that which riots out of plenty. The remedy of
fruitfulnesse is easie, but no labour will help the contrary. I will like
and praise some things in a young Writer which yet, if hee continue in,
I cannot but justly hate him for the same. There is a time to be given
all things for maturity, and that even your Countrey-husbandman can teach,
who to a young plant will not put the proyning knife, because it seems
to feare the iron, as not able to admit the scarre. No more would I tell
a greene Writer all his faults, left I should make him grieve and faint,
and at last despaire. For nothing doth more hurt then to make him so afraid
of all things as hee can endeavor nothing. Therefore youth ought to be
instructed betimes, and in the best things; for wee hold those longest
wee take soonest: As the first sent of a Vessel lasts, and the tinct the
wool first receives. Therefore a Master should temper his own powers,
and descend to the others infirmity.

THERE cannot be one colour of the mind,
another of the wit. If the mind be staid, grave, and compos'd, the wit
is so; that vitiated, the other is blowne and deflower'd. Do wee not see,
if the mind languish, the members are dull? Looke upon an effeminate person:
his very gate confesseth him. If a man be fiery, his motion is so; if
angry, ‘tis troubled and violent. So that wee may conclude: Wheresoever
manners and fashions are corrupted, Language is. It imitates the publicke
riot. The excesse of Feasts and apparell are the notes of a sick State,
and the wantonnesse of language, of a sick mind.

(This is, of course, the work from which
we have taken the motto of THE UNDEPGROUND GRAMMARIAN, "Neither can
his mind..." We sometimes wish that we had chosen instead that last
sentence. We may yet do that.)

An Anti-Social Comment

from

On Solitarinesse

by Michel de Montaigne

VERILY, a man of understanding
hath lost nothing if he yet have himself. When the city of Nola was overrun
by the barbarians, Paulinus, bishop thereof, having lost all he had there
and being their prisoner, prayed thus to God: "Oh Lord, deliver me
from feeling of this loss; for thou knowest as yet they have touched nothing
that is mine." The riches that made him rich and the goods that made
him good were yet absolutely whole. Behold what it is to choose treasures
well that may be freed from injury, and to hide them in a place where
no man may enter and which cannot be betrayed but by ourselves.

In our accustomed actions, of a thousand
there is not one found that regards us. He whom thou seest so furiously
and, as it were, beside himself to clamber or crawl up the city walls
or breach as a point-blank to a whole volley of shot, and another all
wounded and scarred, crazed and faint and will-nigh hunger-starven, resolved
rather to die than to open his enemy the gate and give him entrance--dost
thou think he is there for himself? No, verity, it is peradventure for
such a one whom neither he nor many of his fellows ever saw and who haply
takes no care at all for them, but is therewhilst wallowing up to the
ears in sensuality, sloth, and all manner of carnal delights. This man
whom, about midnight, when others take their rest, thou seest come out
of his study meager-looking, with eyes trilling, phlegmatic, squalid and
sprawling--dost thou think that, plodding on his books, he doth seek how
he shall become an honester man, or more wise, or more content? There
is no such matter. He will either die in his pursuit or teach posterity
the measure of Plautus' verses and the true orthography of a Latin word.
Who doth not willingly chop and counterchange his health, his ease, yea,
and his life, for glory and for reputation, the most unprofitable, vain,
and counterfeit coin that is in use with us? Our death is not sufficient
to make us afraid, let us also charge ourselves with that of our wives,
of our children, and of our friends and people. Our own affairs do not
sufficiently vex us; let us also drudge, toil, vex, and torment ourselves
with our neighbors' and friends' matters.

As we have lived long enough for others,
live we the remainder of our life unto ourselves. Let us bring home our
cogitations and inventions into ourselves and unto our ease. It is no
easy matter to make a safe retreat; it doth overmuch trouble us without
joining other enterprises to it. Since God gives us leisure to dispose
of our dislodging, let us prepare ourselves unto it; pack we up our baggage;
let us betimes bid our company farewell; shake we off these violent hold-fasts
which elsewhere engage us and estrange us from ourselves. These so strong
bonds must be untied, and a man may eftsoons love this or that but wed
nothing but himself. That is to say, let the rest be our own, yet not
so combined and glued together that it may not be sundered without flaying
us and therewithal pull away some piece of our own. The greatest thing
of the world is for a man to know how to be his own.

Socrates on Navigation

from

Georgias

by Plato

SOCRATES: Do you imagine that one should
bend his efforts to living as long as possible and practice those arts
that constantly save us from dangers, such as the rhetoric you bid me
practice, which preserves one's life in the law courts?

CALLICLES: Yes, by heaven, and it was good
advice, too.

SOCRATES: What now, my good friend, Do you
consider the art of swimming something particularly wonderful?

CALLICLES: No indeed, not I.

SOCRATES: And yet even that art saves men
from death whenever they fall into some situation where such knowledge
is needed. But if this seems to you insignificant, I can tell you of one
greater than this, the pilot's art which like rhetoric, saves not only
our lives but also our bodies and our goods from the gravest dangers.
And this art is unpretentious and orderly, and does not put on airs or
make believe that its accomplishments are astonishing. But, in return
for the same results as those achieved by the advocate, if it brings you
here safely from Aegina, it asks but two obols, and if from Egypt or the
Black Sea, for this mighty service of bringing home safely all that I
mentioned just now, oneself and children and goods and womenfolk and disembarking
them in the harbor, it asks two drachmas at the most, and the man who
possesses this art and achieves these results goes ashore and walks alongside
his ship with modest bearing. For I suppose he is capable of reflecting
that it is uncertain which of his passengers he has benefited and which
he has harmed by not suffering them to be drowned, knowing as he does
that those he has landed are in no way better than when they embarked,
either in body or in soul. He knows that if anyone afflicted in the body
with serious and incurable diseases has escaped drowning the man is wretched
for not having died and has received no benefit from him; he must therefore
reckon that if any man suffers from many incurable diseases in the soul,
which is so much more precious than the body, for such a man life is not
worthwhile and it wilt be no benefit to him if he, the pilot, saves him
from the sea or from the law court or from any other risk. For he knows
it is not better for an evil man to live, for he needs must live ill.

This is why the pilot is not accustomed
to give himself airs, even though he saves us; no my strange friend, nor
the engineer either, who at times has no less power to save life than
the general or anyone else, not to mention the pilot, for at times he
preserves entire cities. Do you place him in the same class as the advocate?
And yet, if he were inclined to speak as you people do, Callicles, making
much of his services, he would bury us with the weight of his arguments,
urging and exhorting us on the necessity of becoming engineers, since
all other professions are valueless, for he can make a good case for himself.
But you disdain him and his craft nonetheless, and would call him "engineer"
as a term of reproach, and you would never be willing to give your daughter
to his son or take his daughter yourself. And yet if we took at the reasons
for which you praise your own accomplishments, what just cause have you
for disdaining the engineer and the others I have mentioned just now?
I know you would say you are a better man and of better family. But if
by "better" you do not mean what I do, but goodness consists
merely in saving oneself and one's property, whatever one's character,
it is ridiculous to find fault with the engineer and the doctor and the
other crafts devised for the purpose of giving safety. But, my good sir,
just reflect whether what is good and noble is not something more than
saving and being saved. Perhaps the true man should ignore this question
of living for a certain span of years and being so enamored of life, but
should leave these things to God and, trusting the womenfolk who say that
no man can escape his destiny, should consider the ensuing question--in
what way one can best live the life that is to be his, whether by assimilating
himself to the type of government under which he lives--so that now, after
all, you must become as like as possible to the Athenian people, if you
are to be dear to them and wield great power in the city.

Looking for the World

from

Tractatus Logico-Philosopbicus

by Ludwig Wittgenstein

NEWTONIAN mechanics,
for example, imposes a unified form on the description of the world. Let
us imagine a white surface with irregular blank spots on it. We then say
that whatever kind of picture these make, I can always approximate it
as closely as I wish by covering the surface with a sufficiently fine
square mesh, and then saying of every square whether it is black or white.
In this way I shall have imposed a unified form on the description of
the surface. The form is optional, since I could have achieved the same
result by using a net with a triangular or hexagonal mesh. Possibly the
use of a triangular mesh would have made the description simpler: that
is to say, it might be that we could describe the surface more accurately
with a coarse triangular mesh than with a fine square mesh (or conversely),
and so on. The different nets correspond to different systems for describing
the world. Mechanics determines one form of description of the world by
saying that all propositions used must be obtained in a given way from
a given set of propositions--the axioms of mechanics. It thus supplies
the bricks for building the edifice of science, and it says, "Any
building that you want to erect, whatever it may be, must somehow be constructed
with these bricks, and with these alone."

(Just as with the number system we must
be able to write down any number we wish, so with the system of mechanics
we must be able to write down any proposition of physics that we wish.)

And now we can see the relative position
of logic and mechanics. (The net might consist of more than one kind of
mesh: e. g. we could use both triangles and hexagons.) The possibility
of describing a picture like the one mentioned above with a net of given
forms tells us nothing about the picture. (For that is true of all such
pictures.) But what does characterize the picture is that it can be described
completely by a particular net with a particular size of mesh.

Similarly, the possibility of describing
the world by means of Newtonian mechanics tells us nothing about the world:
but what does tell us something about it is the precise way in which it
is possible to describe it by these means. We are also told something
about the world by the fact that it can be described more simply with
one system of mechanics than with another.

The Bottomest of Bottom-Lines

from

The Diary of John Woolman

UNTIL the year 1756,
1 continued to retail goods, besides following my trade as a Taylor; about
which time I grew uneasy on account of my business growing too cumbersome.
I began with selling timings for garments, and from thence proceeded to
Sell cloaths and linens, and at length having got a considerable shop
of goods, my trade increased every year, and the road to large business
appeared open: but I felt a Stop in my mind.

Through the Mercies of the Almighty I had
in a good degree learned to be content with a plain way of living. I had
but a small family and my outward Affairs had been prosperous and, on
serious reflection I believed Truth did not require me to engage in much
cumbering affairs. It had generally been my practice to buy and sell things
really usefull. Things that served chiefly to please the vain mind in
people, I was not easie to trade in; seldom did it, and whenever I did,
I found it weaken me as a Christian.

The increase of business became my burthen,
for though my natural inclination was towards merchandize, yet I believed
Truth required me to live more free from outward cumbers. There was now
a strife in my mind betwixt the two, and in this exercise my prayers were
put up to the Lord, who Graciously heard me, and gave me a heart resigned
to his Holy will; I then lessened my outward business; and as I had opportunity
told my customers of my intention that they might consider what shop to
turn to: and so in a while, wholly laid down merchandize, following my
trade as a Taylor, myself only, having no prentice. I also had a nursery
of Apple trees, in which I spent a good deal of time, howing, grafting,
trimming & Inoculating.

In merchandize it is the custom where I
lived, to sell chiefly on credit; and poor people often get in debt, &
when payment is expected having not wherewith to pay, & so their creditors
sue for it Law: Having often observed occurences of this kind, I found
it good for me to advise poor people to take such as were most useful
& not costly.

Some Modest Proposals

from

Looking Backward

by Edward Bellamy

"AFTERALL,"
I remarked, "no amount of education can cure natural dullness or
make up for original mental deficiencies. Unless the average mental capacity
of men is much above its level in my day, a high education must be pretty
nearly thrown away on a large element of the population. We used to hold
that a certain amount of susceptibility to educational influences is required
to make a mind worth cultivating, just as a certain natural fertility
in the soil is required if it is to repay tilling."

"Ah," said Dr. Leete, "I
am glad you used that illustration, for it is just the one I would have
chosen to set forth the modern view of education. You say that land so
poor that the product will not repay the labor of tilting is not cultivated.
Nevertheless, much land that does not begin to repay tilting was cultivated
in your day and is in ours. I refer to gardens, parks, lawns, and, in
general, to pieces of land so situated that, were they left to grow up
to weeds and briers, they would be eyesores and inconveniences to all
about. They are therefore tilled, and though their product is little,
there is yet no land that, in a wider sense, better repays cultivation.
So it is with the men and women with whom we mingle in the relations of
society, whose voices are always in our ears, whose behavior in innumerable
ways affects our enjoyment--who are, in fact, as much conditions of our
lives as the air we breathe, or any of the physical elements on which
we depend. If, indeed, we could not afford to educate everybody, we should
choose the coarsest and dullest by nature, rather than the brightest,
to receive what education we could give. The naturally refined and intellectual
can better dispense with aids to culture than those less fortunate in
endowments.

"To borrow a phrase used in your day,
we should not consider life worth living if we had to be surrounded by
a population of ignorant, boorish, coarse, wholly uncultivated men and
women, as was the plight of the few educated in your day. Is a man satisfied,
merely because he is perfumed himself, to mingle with a malodorous crowd?
Could he take more than a very limited satisfaction, even in a palatial
apartment, if the windows on all sides opened into stable yards? And yet
just that was the situation of those considered most fortunate as to culture
and refinement in your day.... The cultured man in your day was like one
up to the neck in a nauseous bog solacing himself with a smelling bottle.
You see, perhaps, now, how we look at this question of universal high
education. No single thing is so important to every man as to have for
neighbors intelligent, companionable persons. There is nothing, therefore,
which the nation can do for him, that will enhance so much his own happiness
as to educate his neighbors. When it fails to do so, the value of his
own education is reduced by half, and many of the tastes he has cultivated
are made positive sources of pain.

"To educate some to the highest degree,
and leave the mass wholly uncultivated, as you did, made the gap between
them almost like that between different species, which have no means of
communication. What could be more inhuman than this consequence of a partial
enjoyment of education! Its universal and equal enjoyment leaves the differences
between men as to natural endowments as marked as in the state of nature,
but the level of lowest is vastly raised. Brutishness is eliminated. All
have some inklings of the humanities, some appreciation of the things
of the mind, and an admiration for the still higher culture they have
fallen short of. They have become capable of receiving and imparting,
all in some measure, the pleasures and inspirations of a refined social
life. The cultured society of the nineteenth century--what did it consist
of but here and there a few microscopic oases in a vast, unbroken wilderness?
The proportion of individuals capable of intellectual sympathies or refined
intercourse used to be so infinitesimal as to be in any broad view of
humanity scarcely worth mentioning. One generation of the world today
represents a greater volume of intellectual life than any five centuries
ever did before.

"There is still another point I should
mention in stating the grounds on which nothing less than the universality
of the best education could now be tolerated," continued Dr. Leete,
"and that is, the interest of the coming generation in having educated
parents. To put the matter in a nutshell, there are three main grounds
on which our educational system rests: first, the right of every man to
the completest education the nation can give him on his own account, as
necessary to the enjoyment of himself; second, the right of his fellow
citizens to have him educated, as necessary to their enjoyment of his
society; third, the right of the unborn to be guaranteed an intelligent
and refined parentage."

The Last Word

from

Orley Farm

by Anthony Trollope

THERE is nothing perhaps
so generally consoling to a man as a well-established grievance; a feeling
of having been injured, on which his mind can brood from hour to hour,
allowing him to plead his own cause in his own court, within his own heart,--and
always to plead it successfully.

Typos
and comments: mark.alex (at) sourcetext (dot) com

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